Gathering Honey
by citysoundtracks
Summary: This is a collection of moments that were kept out of the HP books, illustrating Harry and Ginny's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**This is from Ginny's perspective, telling how she felt after Harry left in Deathly Hallows.**

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She was sitting on her window seat, her knees drawn up towards her chest, her hands tangled together in her lap, clutching a photo. Her long, wavy hair was the color of a fiery sunset, and was drawn over her shoulder in a pleat, stray ribbons of honey poking out of the braid. Her eyes were closed, but the long, brown lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her eyebrows – the color of changing autumn leaves – were relaxed. She looked almost asleep, but then slowly, she opened her milk chocolate eyes. They were red and puffy, as though she'd been crying, but her milky cheeks, which were dusted with cinnamon freckles, were remarkably dry. She leaned her head against the glass, a cool sensation running down her spine. She shivered and drew her knees closer, her jeans scraping lightly against the patched velour of the cushion she was perched on.

The area around her was littered with crumpled pieces of parchment and piles of books, ink bottles, and stray quills which had been cast to the side, none of which could hold her attention for more than a few minutes. The room was dark except for a few gray beams of light from the window; outside was bleak and hazy. The sun hadn't shown in days, and the clouds writhed in and around one another, always threatening rain, but never actually pouring. Shadows seemed deeper and more obsolete than ever, and everything matched her mood perfectly.

A slight wind rattled her window ever-so-slightly, a small tendril of a draft creeping in through the crack where the two windowpanes met. She shivered once again, but did not move otherwise. Her eyes slowly crept towards the photo she was holding, and her grip slackened as she chomped down hard on her lip. Her throat tightened and she could feel her cheeks tingle; she wanted to look away, but her eyes were glued to the photo as though she'd never seen it before, though she'd already memorized it.

It was a photo of her and Harry. It had been a warm, spring afternoon, one of the first glimpses of summer. The trees of the Forbidden Forest were not threatening; instead, they seemed to beckon to passerby. Their branches stretched towards the sky, competing for rays of warmth. Their leaves dappled the ground bellow, and a small breeze shook the chestnut branches. The grass swayed slightly, and some petals drifted through the air, the result of a cherry tree planted somewhere on the grounds. The lake was no longer a wintery black, but instead shone an inviting navy blue. Every so often, a tentacle could be seen drifting up towards the surface, searching for fish or just to get a feeling of warmth.

She and Harry had gone outside to study and do homework, and settled beneath a tall birch tree near the lake. She remembered the feeling of his cotton shirt against her arm as she leaned against him, pretending to concentrate on a Potions essay. She had instead been memorizing the way his hand curved just so over her knee, the way his scar glistened slightly in the light: _"I must not tell lies."_ She had often snuck glances up at him. His hair was iron black and all over the place, but she loved the one thick chunk that drifted over his ivory forehead, barely concealing the scar there. She loved the way his eyes were the color of wet leaves and how they burst with fireworks when he smiled, and how they had been glinting with intelligence he didn't acknowledge behind his glasses that particular day as he struggled through an essay. She loved the way his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth screwed down into a slight frown when he concentrated. She loved the way he smelled when she nuzzled her nose on his neck and smiled; like fresh laundry and musty classrooms and ink on parchment.

The photo had been a mistake. She had been looking at him, and then he met her eyes, and suddenly her lips were on his. When they kissed, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. He tasted like chocolate and rain and mint, and his hands were gentle as they pulled her towards him. Her hands traced the curve of his cheekbones, the graceful arc of his neck as it gave into his collarbone. She counted the buttons her fingertips grazed, and then she circled back upwards again. One of his hands pinned her against him, while the other softly played with her hair as it fell like a curtain over them. Her heart had begun to beat irregularly, and words bubbled to her lips, but she couldn't speak; if she broke them apart, the world would surely end, because it was just her and him, just the heat of his tender kiss, just the feeling of their bodies and they shared secrets that neither one could bear to admit—

_Click._

The sound of the camera had startled them both. Colin Creevy grinned and then ran in the opposite direction. Harry had laughed and sat up straighter, pecked her on the lips, and returned to his essay. She had been annoyed, but then demanded the picture from Colin later. Secretly, she had been glad that this moment had been captured.

The photograph's characters moved like a violin and a bow; perfect, melodic. Once in a while they would look up and laugh, their eyes wide with surprise. Her photographic self would blush, but she looked so happy. So full of life. Vibrant. It was quite a contrast to the way she appeared now.

She slowly swung her legs over the edge of the window seat. Her toes met the carpet, and she could feel the blood rushing down to her legs. She padded softly towards her mirror, where it hung, crooked, on her wall. She stared at herself, barely daring to believe the reflection before her. Comparing her to the girl in the photograph was like comparing night to day, black to white, jubilance to misery. Her skin was pasty and pale, and her nose was red and sore. Her eyes had dark circles, and they were no longer alive. Her mouth looked like it had never harbored a smile, and her lips were no longer pink and full. Her hair was lank and messy, strands sweeping over her face, as though she had just rolled from bed. She scowled and turned away.

"You look a right mess, dear," the mirror said.

She turned her attention back to the window. The garden below was once again overrun with gnomes, and the lawn was littered with rusty cauldrons and rubber boots. But her eyes were on the hills beyond the Burrow. She grazed over the slopes of grass, as if she were hoping that he would just turn up. He was somewhere out there in the world, somewhere saving the wizarding world, somewhere he didn't want her. She knew that this wasn't true, but the poisonous thought had crept into her mind days after he had escaped from the wedding. She hadn't seen him go. Had he been avoiding her? Did he not care for her anymore? Her thoughts and feelings were knotted together like old yarn; she couldn't seem to separate the two anymore. She bit her lip and blinked back the tears she knew would come. Did he think about her as much as she thought about him?

"Ginny!" a shrill voice from the other side of the door shouted, knocking harshly on the wood. "Ginny, it's time to stop moping around in there. Go de-gnome the garden, would you?"

Ginny sniffed and slapped her cheeks, hoping to bring some color back into them. She forced a smile on her face and, before opening the door, stole a fleeting look at herself in the mirror. The smile was somebody else's; her eyes were still miserable. She groaned and flung the door open. Her mother was standing there, concern apparent through all of her features. Ginny met her eyes before slipping past her mother and outside.

A cool breeze hit her face, a welcome change to the absolute stillness to her room. The grass rustled around her, and she could hear the gnomes waddling and cackling as they dove into the bushes to avoid her. Birds chirped and the wind whispered words of comfort to her. The ground was soft and gave slightly beneath her as she stood, closing her eyes and lifting her cheeks to the dismal sky.

The rain came at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is in Harry's point of view. It is one of the nights where he's outside of the tent in Deathly Hallows. **

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Night was the worst.

Sitting there, guarding the tent with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company, those were the times her face drifted into his mind. Those were the times he could not cast her out. She was still Harry's last thought every night before he drifted into unconsciousness. She was still his secret wish when the first star appeared in the violet sky. She was still the breath in his ear when the breeze carried scents of dry wood and melting snow to his nose. She was everywhere around him, and yet she was a ghost, a non-entity.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned against the pole of the tent and allowed the floodgate of memories to open. His mind was immediately bombarded with shreds of images, each one slicing through him, causing a physical pain. Ron had blamed him for Ginny's heartbreak, but it wasn't possible that her heart was any more shattered than his. He had ended it to protect her. What if she was killed because of him? What if, instead of targeting him directly, they went after her? Captured her, tortured her, killed her? His throat tightened. He had to end it. He refused to let her die, to put her in danger any more than he already had.

But his determination not to endanger her didn't stop her face from floating behind his eyelids. It didn't stop the way his heart fluttered at the memory of their hands, perfectly intertwined. It didn't stop the way he felt sick when he thought of her with anybody else, didn't stop the white-hot flash of anger he felt when he imagined her pressed against a nameless, faceless stranger, their bodies curling inwards.

The memories pounded against his skill, vibrating in his brain, ringing in his ears. He dug his knuckles into his eyes; what he wouldn't give for a pensieve. Stars the color of autumn erupted behind his eyelids, blinding him, but reminding him of her at the same time. Groaning, he surrendered himself to the onslaught, knowing well that this would hurt him more rather than heal him of any self-inflicted wounds he still felt.

_They were walking together, hand in hand, underneath the smeared sky, the colors of sunset liquefied and running together. Their palms were pressed together, and Harry could feel the small tingle of her pulse against his wrist. She was so close, she was his, and it was perfect. They were walking around the lake, the dark water illuminated by the fiery colors above them. She stopped and raised her head to the sky, her eyes reflecting the brilliant orange, the rose petal pink, and the deep violet of the sunset. She smiled, and her face was vibrant as she turned to look at him. A small breeze sent stray ribbons of her fiery hair flying, one coming to rest on her cheek. He reached up and brushed it away, and her smile broadened as her cheeks flushed a very pretty, pale pink. He grinned and lead her over to a birch tree, where Colin had caught them snogging a few days before. Harry had asked for the photograph, but Colin said that he didn't have it. _

_She laughed and curled her body into his, never letting go of his hand, so that they were pressed together, their hands intertwined and resting on her navel. They sat underneath the tree, her head on his collarbone, her back pressed into his chest. She sat in between his legs, and his hand traced her arm, and he was pleased to see that his fingertips left a trail of goosebumps. She continued to look up at the sky. But he was watching her; he didn't care about the sunset._

_Her skin was milky white, and her cheeks were speckled with freckles. Her brown eyes were the color of chestnuts and sparkled with interest as they watched the sun descend over the horizon. Her pink lips were curled up in a smile. Her long, satiny hair cascaded in waves over her shoulder, tickling her cheeks and arms. He pressed his lips into the back of her head. She smelled like strawberries and maple syrup._

_She turned her head towards him, her large, brown eyes staring into his, a flicker of a smile still playing on her lips. Her cheeks were pink, and, against his wrist, he could feel her pulse racing. He inclined his head, and their noses brushed. He could count the freckles that were strewn over her face. Slowly, so slowly, her eyes drifted closed and she raised her head, meeting his lips._

_He did not expect, nor was he prepared, for the sudden burst of emotion inside of him. Suddenly, it was just him and her, just the heat of her gentle lips against his as they moved together, just the feeling of her hands pressed against his chest, just the tickle of her hair as it brushed against his neck, just the chilling sensation that grazed down his arms as he pulled her closer. She tasted like toffee and vanilla. The world was spinning to fast, everything was rushing, and yet she was soft, tender, and calm. Her one hand knotted itself in his hair, the other curling itself into the cotton of his shirt, but she was still placid. _

_And then, unexpectedly, their tongues met, and Harry became aware of every point on his body. It was her, pressed against him, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, his arms circling her waist, tugging her slowly forward. It was just them, meeting, melting, sweltering together in the fire that had been ignited not two seconds ago, but was already unbearable. _

_It seemed like years until they pulled apart. Ginny's eyes were blazing and fiery, and her cheeks were flushed. Her breath was soft and sharp, her lips slightly parted. She cocked her head and grinned at him._

"_Why Harry," she said playfully, "I do believe you are blushing. It seems silly for the Chosen One to blush at a simple kiss."_

_He had just smiled and kissed her again. It didn't matter anymore that people were calling him the "Chosen One." It didn't matter that Voldemort was back and at large. It didn't matter that the wizarding world was in danger._

_It was just her. _


	3. Chapter 3

**This is from Ginny's POV. It takes place shortly after her and Harry start dating in HBP.**

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She was curled against his chest, looking over her Transfiguration textbook, trying to work out how to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion. His arms were around her waist, and her flowing red hair spilled over them both. The common room was warm, illuminated in the dusk by several lamps and a hearty fire in the hearth. It cackled merrily, seeming to enjoy the light atmosphere. All around, the buzz of voices and laughter filled the room like honey as people did homework and joked with one another. Quills, parchment, and textbooks lay strewn across most surfaces, and candy wrappers were balled up and thrown into various corners. The plush chairs were all occupied, and it seemed the only untouched surfaces were the bookshelves, which stretched to the high, cathedral ceiling.

Harry and Ginny were cuddled up together on one of the sofas in front of the marble fireplace and, in front of them, Ron was trying to persuade Hermione to look over his Potions essay. A game of wizard's chess lay abandoned in the corner; one of the pawns was on its side, yelling to Ron about "deserting the troops in a time of battle." Ginny eyed the pair suspiciously over the brim of her book, rustling the pages. Hermione had attempted to control her bushy hair by half-hazardly braiding it, which she swung over her shoulder like a thick, mahogany rope. Her bangs were long, and trailed over her cheeks like wavy silk. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked aggravated, but Ginny knew better.

She was distracted by Harry's hand, which was now twirling her hair between his fingers absentmindedly. Looking up at him, she realized that he, too, was watching the scene before them, a look of mild interest and amusement playing across his features. His eyes glinted as he grinned down at her, and she laughed.

"They argue like an old married couple," Ginny murmured.

Harry chuckled. "Ten galleons they get married," he whispered back. They shook on it.

Ginny's mind wandered to Harry's wedding. Who would he marry? She scowled as she pictured him with a faceless stranger, his arms holding her against him, smiling down at her, the happiest man in the world. Suddenly, the stranger grew a head of brilliant read hair. The stranger's unknown features melted away, replaced with deep brown eyes and freckles. Her heart fluttered as she realized that she was the one in his arms now. She could see his green eyes, slightly more wrinkled with adulthood, see the parentheses around his smile, feel the rustle of the silk and chiffon wedding dress…

_Silly_, she told herself. _Don't be such a girl._

Still, she found Harry's hand and intertwined her fingers with his. He squeezed her waist and, involuntarily she blurted, "What—what about you? Your marriage?"

Shocked at herself and blushing furiously, she averted his eyes, staring intently at the page number in her book. _47 – Complex Transfigurations, Small rodents, Household Items._ But he cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face upwards. His vibrant green eyes searched hers, a tender smile unfurling over his lips. He didn't say anything, but instead leaned slowly forward, brushing his lips softly against hers. He pulled away, still smiling, their faces inches apart, before she met him again. It was all the reassurance she needed. Their mouths moved together in perfect synchronization, his fingers brushing her cheek, his lips smiling against hers. The transfiguration book slipped from her fingers and landed with a _thunk_ as her she turned, her chest now pressed against his, her hands in his hair, his fingers trailing down her back—

"Oi!" Ron bellowed, and Ginny was suddenly jostled away from Harry. Fleetingly, she realized that he had punched Harry in the arm.

"What did you do that for?" she hissed, but Harry just laughed.

Ron scowled at both of them. "Could you be a little more discreet? I don't want to turn around and be bombarded with my sister and my best mate _snogging_ when I'm trying to concentrate—"

"Oh, please," Ginny interrupted. "You owe us. There were days I couldn't stomach anything because you and Lavender were tangled together and thrashing all over the Great Hall, sounding like two toilet plungers mating. Harry and I weren't stopping you from working, anyway."

Hermione and Harry laughed, but Ron's face turned red. "You still don't have to snog Harry right in front of me—!"

"Would you rather I snogged Dean, then?" she snarled.

Ignoring Ron's furious sputtering, Ginny turned back to Harry. His lips had turned down in a frown, and his eyes were troubled. He sat up straighter and retrieved her Transfiguration book from the floor, still looking pained. She waited for him to speak.

"Would you… Would you rather be snogging Dean?" he asked quietly. This time, it was his turn to avoid her gaze.

She laughed and he whipped his head up, his eyes wide with surprise. "I never actually wanted to date Dean," she replied. She remembered the way their kisses felt empty, how her mind always wandered, how he always responded with too much enthusiasm, how his hands always snaked around her, holding her too tight, how she had always felt hollow afterwards.

She also didn't like the way he tasted. Consistently, the flavor of his lips was spearmint. It wasn't necessarily bad, but she preferred Harry; he was always changing. Today, he tasted like spun sugar and green apples. But, beneath his variety, there was always a much softer layer. It tasted salty and bitter, but also sweet beyond comprehension, all strung together like a present for her to unwrap every time their lips met.

"Whenever we kissed," she continued, blushing, "I would always think of you."


End file.
